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be stupid, since I will see you every day. I know I shouldn’t say anything about the cost because that is bad manners, but buying one for each of us is a lot and I really thank you. And putting in our spelling words, for the spelling bees that we will have throughout the year, is a good way to do more than just our journal writing.
    I’ve never had a journal of my own before. Even though I’ve learned how much my mama values my writing, she could never justify the cost of so much blank paper. Writing on the back of used paper was always good enough for my schoolwork. Because you made this a gift as well as an assignment, and one that everyone received, not a charity just for the kids like me, it sits well with my folks. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have such a teacher, but I am grateful beyond my words.
    I like writing things down, which I’d never done until Mrs. Warren made me write to you. I’m not really expecting you will read all of these — everybody writing will be a lot to keep up with, but I’m still going to write like you’d read it. It helps me feel good at the end of the day. Granny Bits says this is how she feels after her prayers, but I get nervous after I pray — I do lots wrong, and what if Jesus gets tired of forgiving me?
    Getting the journal was definitely the best part of the day until after school. I threw up twice on the way to school, which upset Shag no end — she kept trying to herd me to stay on the path. It’s a longer walk here than to my old school, but it only took forty minutes, even with being sick.
    Putting on that dress this morning was what first started me to feeling sick to my stomach. Mama picked the white one — why not start as a dream? When she smoothed that frock, her dark fingers framed against the soft white fabric, I knew it just wasn’t right. I didn’t belong in that dress — I didn’t
want
to belong. Trying to be good to family sure can make things hard, huh?
    Your building is as grand on the inside as I might have guessed. So much brick and so much beautiful carving work on a building for kids. It looks grander than my church. I’m glad we’re in the first room in the hall. How would I have found us? I would wonder how you recognized me, but then, I’ll bet you knew me by my scar — for once I liked it, because it was so nice to have you call my name, to hear a voice say, “Kizzy Ann,” and it was like I had a friend in a strange place and I knew where to go. You have the room looking so friendly and warm and welcoming. Our names on the desks and pictures on the walls and everything. The big windows make everything sunny, which is not like our building before. Windows are expensive, I know, and the slaves couldn’t do those when they built our school before. Plus, windows let the heat out. For now I like that my desk is beside the window, because I can see Shag where she waits for me sometimes out under the trees, but later I might feel pretty cold. Do you have good heat in this building? You probably do. I don’t mean to start out being a complainer. I’m just nervous.
    Things could have been worse, I guess. Nobody spoke to me except when you wished me a good morning. I’d expected some smart remarks, some white kids ordering me around. Of course, only four of us black kids came today, to “their” school. I heard some of the other black kids talking about how they weren’t coming — even after your welcoming letters, they were afraid of what might happen. They’d heard rumors about dogs and police. They were just going to stay in their houses and see what happened.
    I knew David Warren would come. He had to. His grandma is Mrs. Warren, and there is
no
way she’d allow him to stay at home.
    Then the Stark twins, Ovita and Omera. They are so meek and shy that together they equal only half of a personality.
    And me. None of us spoke at all. As soon as I got close enough to the building to see it, close enough to hear the chatter of